My name was Sanguinius, and I was an ordinary Primarch. Though I had a pair of wings on my back, I didn't consider myself one of the angels from mythology. After all, angels weren't as despicable as I was.
Of all my brothers, only Fulgrim could understand me. His perfectionist nature was off-putting, but compared with our other brothers, we shared a common language, both of us troubled by mutations within our Legions.
Fulgrim and I also despised Curze, that hypocrite. I especially hated how everyone compared the Blood Angels to the Night Lords. So much so that even seeing Corvus Corax, who looked just like Curze, filled me with genuine disgust.
I had never considered betraying anyone. The ability to see the future didn't make me prescient; it only filled me with an indescribable dread. Especially the void-black hole that appeared in my prophecies, tormenting my mind like a monster.
Those ineffable, tangled thoughts gradually drove my reason to ruin. I couldn't understand why the monster clung to me so tenaciously. And that line—"I did nothing wrong!"—had tormented me ever since I opened my eyes on Baal. What kind of conceited consciousness could repeat that same sentence for hundreds of years?
Baal was my homeworld. Though it had suffered severe nuclear contamination, I refused to give up. I gathered my people and raised an army, determined to set this world right again.
But one person's strength had its limits. I could cut through enemy lines, but war wasn't a one-man affair. Faced with vicious mutant creatures and crazed warlords, my comrades fell one after another.
I gradually stopped feeling grief for my fallen comrades. Victory demanded sacrifices; that was inevitable. Only when I was alone did I think of my companions, those who had been twisted beyond recognition by